


louder than words

by valety



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Fluff, Future Fic, Nonverbal Frisk, Other, POV Second Person, Post-Pacifist Route
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-14
Updated: 2016-03-14
Packaged: 2018-05-26 14:06:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6242377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valety/pseuds/valety
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Conveying your feelings can be kind of tricky when you never really got the hang of the whole “feelings” or "communication" thing in the first place.</p>
            </blockquote>





	louder than words

**Author's Note:**

> warnings for chara’s self-worth issues and anxiety, including a minor panic attack towards the end

You and Asriel are sitting in the backyard, basking in the sunlight as it filters through the trees. Today is gardening day, and though you’re not really feeling up for helping—the past few days have been Bad Days—Toriel had suggested that you join him anyway, sending you outside with some Nice Creams as a bribe. The sunshine feels pretty nice, you guess, and the moment you’d made your appearance, Asriel had set down his watering can to come and join you, so in the end, you suppose it wasn't a bad idea. 

You’d brought a book with you, one you’d set down on the grass in order to unwrap your Nice Cream ( _“You can do it! I believe in you!”)._ As you lick your cone, you catch sight of it and say, “I need you to take me to that bookstore again, the one down the street from the dollar store Frisk likes. There’s a book I’ve been trying to find.”

“Sure thing,” Asriel replies. He smiles when he says it, a warm smile, as though nothing in the world could give him greater pleasure than to be your escort so that you don’t have to talk to any of the sales staff. 

“What’s that dopey grin for?” you ask with a frown. 

Without missing a beat, Asriel replies, “You’re cute.”

You choke, dropping your Nice Cream.

For approximately forty-five seconds, you are spluttering and coughing while Asriel pounds you on the back.

As soon as you can speak again, you say, "What the _hell."_

"I'm sorry," he apologizes, not sounding sorry in the least. "I shouldn't have said that without preparing you first."

 _"Preparing_ me? How the hell would you _prepare_ me for something like that?" you demand, wiping your chocolate-covered mouth. Your Nice Cream is now little more than a tragic puddle on the grass. "I'm not a, a _thing_ that needs to be prepared, a fish that needs to be trimmed and scaled before it can be fried—"

"Huh?" 

"I don't know, that was the first thing that came to mind!" you snap. "Whatever, you still can't _do_ that! You can't just say shit like that out of nowhere!"

"It wasn't exactly out of nowhere," Asriel says, offering you his own Nice Cream. You swat his hand away. "I mean, I like you a lot. I've liked you for a while, Chara. Did you really—"

"Shut up!" you screech, flying to your feet. "Don't say another word _ever!"_

“It’s okay,” Asriel says mildly. “You don’t have to say it back.”

You give him the coldest glare you can muster before marching back into the house.

It's summer now and everything is perfect. _Too_ perfect. Too bright and blue and full of sunshine in a way that seems almost fake, like a portrait of early June as opposed to the month itself. Maybe that's why you’d reacted as badly as you did, you think as you rummage through the freezer for a replacement treat. The world seems to exist in a dream today, and for Asriel to just...come out and _say_ something like that seems like the most impossible thing of all. The improbable cherry on top of the unrealistically delicious hot fudge sundae that is your life.

The first time you'd caught yourself imagining what it would be like to kiss Asriel Dreemurr, you'd been twelve years old and playing Zombie Attack in the garden. He'd been infected and trying to eat your brains, and as he'd lurched towards you, moaning with his hands outstretched, your mind had suddenly interrupted your strategizing to wonder, _what would he do if I put my mouth on his right now?_

You'd brushed the thought aside, of course. There had been more important things to think about. But then the game had ended and you’d still found yourself wondering occasionally, how exactly would your mouth interact with his? Would it feel hairy? What would you do about his teeth? Did you _want_ to kiss him?

(Maybe.)

You’d never acted upon your curiosity. There had never been any time to get it right. There had always been some new game to play, some new plan to execute, and then the two of you had, well, _died,_ and of course you hadn't been kissing anybody then. You hadn't even had any lips.

But now it's summer, and when you head back outside with a new cone and see that Asriel has returned to his watering, it suddenly occurs to you that if ever there was going to be a time for you to think about such things, it might as well be now.

 

 

* * *

 

 

You can't see your face, but you can tell from the disgustingly smug light in Frisk’s eyes that you are very, very red right now and you _hate_ it.

“This was a mistake,” you mutter, moving to stand, but their hand shoots out and grabs your wrist, yanking you back down into your seat.

Frisk, being Frisk, wasn’t satisfied with just offering you advice like a normal person. Instead, they'd insisted upon setting up a consultation office, arranging their desk and chairs in a formation that was uncomfortably reminiscent of a principal's office. They have a nameplate made out of construction paper on their desk and everything. As you sit across from them, you can't quite shake the feeling that you’re on the verge of receiving detention.  

 _Tell me again what happened,_ they sign.

You sigh and roll your eyes. “I already _told_ you. We were sitting in the garden, and I said something about wanting him to take me to the bookstore, and then he said... _it_ out of nowhere.” Your face grows hot at the memory alone. “I kind of reacted badly? I guess?”

_You mean you yelled at him._

“I don't have to answer that." 

_So what do you want to do now?_

“I don’t know,” you mutter, slumping in your chair. Any lower and you’ll probably slide off. “I want to have not yelled at him." 

_Did he seem upset?_

“No. But he said I didn’t have to say it back, which is...stupid.”

Frisk hums thoughtfully, tenting their fingers as they lean back in their seat. For someone so softhearted, they sure seem to enjoy your suffering, you sourly observe.

 _Do you like him?_ they ask at last. 

“Of course I like him,” you say. “It’s Asriel, how could I not?”

But you know that’s not what Frisk was asking, and from the way they quirk their eyebrows, it looks like they know you know as well. Still, if both of you know what’s going on here, then you’re under no obligation to explain yourself. You fold your arms even tighter, scowling at them from across the desk.

Frisk stares back. Waiting for you to crack.

You crack.

“I mean, he’s _nice,_ I guess” you say, and you drop your gaze so that you can focus on a faded patch on the rug and not have to see the knowing look in Frisk’s eyes. “What he said surprised me, but...but it wasn’t _bad,_ exactly. I just...I don’t...what am I supposed to _say_ to him?”

And Frisk’s normally inexpressive face finally breaks out into a smile.

 _You came to the right place,_ they sign.

Nearly an hour later, you stumble out of their bedroom in a daze, head swimming with information.

You pointedly ignore the way they waggle their eyebrows at you during dinner. But then it’s time for bed and you bump into Asriel after you brush your teeth, and there’s such a gooey look in his eyes when he says _goodnight_ that something in your chest aches.

Quietly, you promise yourself that you will try. And that night, you write yourself a script and make a plan.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 _Even if you have trouble saying it out loud, you can still tell him that you like him in other ways. Seriously, never underestimate the power of body language. I’ve been flirting with people in total silence for_ years. _Try locking eyes from across the room. Let it linger. You don’t have to say a single word and he’ll still get butterflies._

 

 

* * *

 

 

The next day, you find Asriel and Frisk in the living room playing some video game about squids. _Oh, he’s busy, too bad,_ your brain immediately thinks, but you’d die before trusting your own brain on anything, and so you march into the living room and plop down on the couch beside him.

Too late, you remember the _from across the room_ part. But you’re not about to stand and walk across the room for the sole purpose of staring meaningfully at Asriel from a distance, so he’ll just have to fucking deal with it.

You end up leering awkwardly at him from the other side of the couch. For once, Asriel doesn’t seem to pick up on any of the telepathic messages you’re sending him, too absorbed in what his squid is doing onscreen to pay any attention to you. Which is bullshit, honestly, he should _always be_ paying attention to you, but whatever.

“You promised to take me to that bookstore,” you say at last, because _apparently_ he’s not going to make the first move. 

Frisk had suggested getting him alone to tell him that you...don’t hate him, and going to the bookstore counts as being alone, right? It’s out of the house, at least, which has to count for something.

“Yeah, I remember,” Asriel says, eyes still fixed on the television. "I just want to finish here."

He seems to be biting his lip, and you wonder idly how his fangs aren’t puncturing it. If you end up kissing him, that might seriously be a problem.

Finally, he looks at you. Judging from his expression, he’s decidedly un-butterflied.

“Did you wanna play?” he ask.

“No. I hate this game,” you say. You don’t even know what game it is.

Frisk’s shoulders are shaking with silent laughter and you decide to concentrate as much of your psychic energy as you can spare on blowing up their head.

(It doesn’t work).

 

 

* * *

 

 

_You could give him a gift. That way, he’ll know that you’ve been thinking of him even when you’re not together. Something thoughtful, something romantic, something - no, Chara, a knife is not romantic. Try flowers. Asriel likes flowers._

 

 

* * *

 

 

You struggle for quite some time over what kind of flowers to get him. Ambrosia? Lilacs? Yellow tulips? The meanings are right—close enough to be acceptable, at least—but you’re not actually growing any of them right now and don't know where to find them. 

You could go to the florist’s and just _buy_  something like a normal human being, but the thought of embarking on such an expedition unaccompanied makes your skin crawl. You could ask Frisk to go with you, but they’ll just spend the whole time winking and nudging and dragging you towards the roses and you are _not_ giving Asriel roses. You could get him something that isn’t flowers, but your options are kind of limited when you’re as dead-set against going out in public as you are. Besides, the only alternatives you can think of is food and Asriel has been refusing to eat anything you give him ever since that time you tricked him into eating dog biscuits.

In the end, you choose camellias. White ones, picked from a bush in your corner of the garden.

When Asriel meets you by the front door, you stiffly hold them out to him. “Look how well they’re blooming,” you say, because you sure as fuck aren’t going to say _you’re cute, have some flowers_. “It’s pretty late in the year for these. Isn’t that cool?”

“Oh, wow!” Asriel says appreciatively, taking the blossoms from you. “They smell so nice!”

“Yes,” you awkwardly reply.

“I think dad makes tea from these sometimes,” he add. “It’s supposed to be good for your immune system.”

“Yes,” you say again, for lack of a better response.

Then Asriel hands the camellias back to you. “Are you ready to go?” he asks.

He’s smiling like an idiot, as though it never occurred to him even for second that you’d intended for him to keep the stupid flowers. As though they were never meant to be any kind of message.

You smile back as brightly as you can, fists clenching around the stems.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 _You have to get as close to him as you feel comfortable with. Lean into your conversations. Maybe even hold his hand. Yes, hold his hand, you gotta hold his hand Chara it is_ illegal _not to hold his hand at this point HOLD THE BOY’S HAND CHARA._

 

 

* * *

 

 

According to Frisk, it’s vitally important that you hold Asriel’s hand. You’re not sure what the big deal is. The two of you have always been close, and even if you’ve never gone out of your way to hold his hand before, you might as well have.

Once you really got to know him and subsequently got over your terror of physical contact with him, your instinct has always been to be as close to him as possible at all times, especially when you’re in public. It’s pathetic that a teenager should need a babysitter just to go into town, but you’ve never quite been able to shake the feeling that the crowds are just _waiting_ for a chance to turn on you: that they can somehow see everything you’ve ever done, every nasty thought you’ve ever had, every mistake you’ve ever made, and that if you were to go among them by yourself, they’d devour you alive.

Asriel is your shield. Next to him, you’re invisible. If you’re invisible, you’re safe, and so you stay close to him as you walk down the street together. You don’t need Frisk’s advice to make that happen, just your own weakness.

Still, maybe you can take it one step further. This time of your own free will, not just because you’re afraid.

As you pass some law office-looking building, you take Asriel’s hand. Without a moment’s hesitation, he weaves his fingers with your own.

It feels...natural. Despite the difference in size, your hands seem to fit each other perfectly.

Your script is sitting in your bag, along with the camellias, and maybe those, too, can be your shield—this time a shield of your own creation, crafted from your own intentions.

You can do this.

 

 

* * *

 

 

_You probably won’t be able to get away with saying nothing at all, because it’s Asriel, but you can always write yourself a script if you need to. It’s hardest when you have to improvise. If you’re just reading lines, there’s less of a chance that you’ll get nervous and lash out._

 

 

* * *

 

 

You kind of hate the bookstore you asked Asriel to take you to. You’ve always preferred the ones that specialize in used books, labyrinths of messy shelves crammed with abandoned histories, places you can get lost in for entire afternoons. This one is cold and clean and clinical, with a look-but-don’t-touch kind of atmosphere and cashiers who raise their eyebrows at you if you try to buy manga. Still, it’s the biggest store in walking distance, meaning it’s the place you’re most likely to find the Mishima you’ve been searching for.

You narrowly manage to avoid the salesperson who ambushes you with a _what are you looking for today?_ by ducking into Romance, after which you tug Asriel along with you past Horror and Gay Interest and into Fiction. But the book you want isn’t there, no matter how many times you scan the shelves, and finally he asks, “Do you want to leave?"

 _No, because it’s not about the book,_ you want to say, even though it's kind of slightly about the book. But it’s only about the book in that the book was your excuse: you’d been wanting it, sure, but spending time alone with Asriel in order to get your shit together was more important. How are you supposed to tell him that you ~~like~~ don’t hate him if the two of you go back home, where you’ll have an audience of non-strangers watching, judging, _mocking_ you?

(Frisk and Toriel probably won’t mock you, but it’ll just be easier to do this where they aren’t watching, _okay?!)_

“Not yet,” you say. “I want to browse a little longer. Maybe I can find something else.”

Asriel isn't even looking at the books, but you guess you shouldn’t be surprised. He’s never been a big reader, outside of when the two of you read to each other on ocassion, but even that tends to be more about you than it is about him. He follows you all throughout the store, watching you peruse the shelves with that dopey grin on his face. It never falters, not even for a second, not even when you scowl at him. It’s like he’s happy just to be spending time with you, even though you’re doing something he’s not interested in, which...which makes _no sense,_ how could he be enjoying this? 

This shouldn’t be so _hard,_ you think, turning the page of a poetry collection with so much force that it almost rips. He called you cute. He even said he ~~likes~~ doesn’t hate you. And it’s not like you mind—you could do worse than a ~~handsome~~ ~~kind~~ ~~funny~~ monster prince who’s inexplicably willing to put up with you and all your baggage. And, well, it’s not like you haven’t thought about it, _it_ being...It. It’s not like you haven’t realized the implications of the two of you still sleeping in the same bed sometimes, and of you sitting on his lap when you get cold, and of the way he puts his hand on the small of your back sometimes when you’re walking down the street together.

So maybe you’ve thought about It, and maybe It’s something you don’t mind, but actually _saying_ It is different. Words have power, words make things real, and if they’re real, then they might break. Actually telling him that you’re okay with whatever the hell the two of you have going on means that It might end someday.

He can’t dump you if you’re not dating, right?

But he probably won’t kiss you, either. After all, you’d responded pretty badly before, and he’d even told you that you didn’t have to say it back. Maybe he thinks you hate him now—and if he thinks you hate him, then he'll _never_ kiss you. 

For the sake of twelve-year-old Chara, you gotta kiss the boy. 

You have to name It. You have to make it real.

You have to tell him.

“Asriel,” you say, snapping the book shut and trying to remember all the lines you had been practicing the night before. “I…”

But then suddenly his eyes are on you, those big, warm, soft, _stupid_ eyes, and he’s looking at you like he’s been lost in the desert for a hundred years and you’ve brought the rain at last, and all your words disappear.

“I just,” you say. “I. This...may not be the best time, but…uh.”

He’s still _looking_ at you.

You’d tried the stupid staring trick, plus the flowers and the hand-holding, all those little ways Frisk had assured you would convey to him that you ~~like~~ don't hate him, but now that it’s finally come down to it, the thought of actually telling him out loud makes you want to _die._

 _You have a script, idiot,_ your brain points out.

Holy shit.

Normally you don’t listen to your brain, but now you're tearing open your bag, frantically digging through the contents for the scrap of paper that you’d written your lines on. You’d brought it with you only so that you could review them if you needed to, but now it’s suddenly occurred to you that it could be the solution to all your problems.

You shove the paper into his hands, along with a camellia that you’d accidentally snatched up in your desperation, and then you take off running.

 

 

* * *

 

 

_You can do it! I believe in you!_

 

 

* * *

 

 

You don’t run very far. You can’t, not with your garbage lungs and anti-stamina (more like stami _nah,_ haha).

There are benches just outside the bookstore, fortunately, and so you stop to catch your breath.

You can’t stop shaking. Part of it is probably because of what you just did, but part of it is also probably because you’d just run through a crowded bookstore _by yourself_ and now you’re sitting outside in public _by yourself_ and honestly, if you died right now, struck down by a stray thunderbolt from Zeus or Thor or whatever, you wouldn’t even mind.

You sink forward, resting your elbows on your knees and your head upon your hands. Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale.

You’re so distracted by your attempt to simultaneously catch your breath and steady your racing heart that you don’t even notice Asriel joining you until someone places a white flower on your lap. His hand is on your back a moment later, rubbing small, soothing circles.

“You’ll be okay,” he says. “You can get through this. Do you want me to take you somewhere quieter?”

You don’t trust your legs right now, and you refuse to allow Asriel to carry you in public, so you shake your head. You make yourself sit up, picking up the blossom as you do so, grateful to have something to fidget with. He keeps his hand on your back, and although you’re still trembling, you’re breathing a little easier now that he’s with you, inhaling and exhaling along with the motion of the circles he is rubbing.

“That was certainly embarrassing,” you say when you can finally speak. Your voice is strained. “I apologize.”

“You don’t have to apologize,” Asriel says gently.

You're silent, busy toying with the camellia petals. The texture is soothing, soft and smooth as silk.

And that is when you notice that he’s holding the paper.

“Did you...read that? _"_ you ask. 

His face turns red, and you once again slump forward, burying your face in your hands.

“Oh my god,” you say. “Oh my god. Oh my god.”  

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

(The contents:

_This might not be the best time or place for me to say this, but I’ve been wanting to tell you that I like you too. If I’m being completely honest, you’re the most important person in my life._

_Even so, it frightens me to think that you may like me, because I cannot help but feel that I’m unworthy of you._

_Still, even though I’m not the greatest person, you help me feel like I’m not necessarily the worst. Because of that, I think that I may finally be ready to learn how to feel worthy of the good things in my life._

_I may be unpracticed when it comes to expressing my true feelings, but you make me want to try. For your sake, I want to learn how to speak of them without blushing, but for now, I hope you’ll settle for an “I like you too.”)_

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“Please don’t be embarrassed,” Asriel pleads.  “I thought it was...I really...I liked it a _lot,_ Chara.”

_“I pray for death.”_

“Please don’t pray for death.”

“Now you know what an embarrassing sap I am, fantastic.”

“Actually,” Asriel says, and though his voice is still gentle, it now carries a hint of amusement in it. “I kind of already knew. But it’s nice to have evidence.”

A beat.

“What do you mean  _you already knew?”_ you cry, dropping your hands.

“I don’t know, I just did,” Asriel replies. Once again, he’s grinning at you like an idiot. An smug idiot with endearing little fangs. An unreasonably cute idiot. “That’s why I said you didn’t have to say it back before. I already knew you felt the same way.”

“Awfully confident, aren’t we?” you snap, hands curling into fists. _"How could you have possibly known?!"_

“People don’t always have to _say_ everything,” he answers breezily, shrugging. “I know what kind of person you are. Talking about this stuff out loud can be hard for you, but that’s okay.”

He stands then, and he’s so tall now that from your place on the bench, he almost seems to block out the sun, the light behind him framing him in gold. It’s too much. It’s too good. But then he takes your hand and pulls you upright with a smirk, and your legs are still jelly from before, and somehow, these things are what finally get you to relax.

Things may seem too good to be true sometimes, but if Asriel can still be a jerk and you can still embarrass yourself, then maybe they _are_  true. Maybe you should be grateful for all those shitty little details. 

He doesn’t drop your hand, even when you’re steady, and he snickers as you glare at him, stopping only when you stomp on his foot as hard as you can. He yelps and lets go, and you throw the camellia at him, saying “I like you.”

To his credit, Asriel doesn’t say _I know,_ even though you’d bet at least three of your knives that he really, really wanted to.

(You can’t blame him. You would too.)  

Instead, the expression of betrayal that he’s wearing from the assault on his foot disappears, giving way to the closest thing to pure happiness that you’ve ever seen on another living thing.

He leans in, pressing his forehead against yours, and says, “I like you too.”

If you could go back in time, you’d tell your twelve-year-old self that kissing Asriel Dreemurr is exactly as uncomfortable as they’d always feared, full of clacking teeth and bumping noses and moments of _what exactly am I supposed to do with this?_

But the two of you are laughing when you break apart, and Asriel says, “I guess we’ll have to practice more,” and the blush that rises in your cheeks isn’t _entirely_ a bad thing, you suppose. 

Your hands fit together, at least, even if your mouths don’t quite work.

You’ll figure out the rest soon enough.

 

 

* * *

 

 

When you make it back to the house, Frisk takes one look at your interlocked hands and offers you a bill for their services; one round of the squid game.

Normally you’d karate chop their head for being cheeky, but whatever. You’re in a good mood today.

It’s summer and everything is perfect, bright and blue and full of sunshine, and somehow, none of it seems quite as fake anymore. The summer is yours, just like every summer in the future will be, and though you may not quite know how to get things right yet, you have plenty of time to work it out. 


End file.
